


and every day we look out at the sea

by demisms



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:24:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demisms/pseuds/demisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Any interaction between them. I just find it really interesting that someone as traditional as Balon decided to raise his daughter as his heir after losing his sons.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>written for the asoiaf kink meme</p>
            </blockquote>





	and every day we look out at the sea

**and every day we look out at the sea.**

-

He rests his hand on her shoulder more after Theon left. They had watched from the stony crags along all of Pyke as Lord Eddard Stark had led the boy away, watched as her brother kept looking over his shoulder and rubbing the sleeve of his tunic across his face. From the wails of their lady mother just a few feet away, one might think that the Northern lord was frogmarching the ten year old to a wooden block, already drawing that monstrous sword from it's sheath and announcing that Balon Greyjoy would have no more heirs. But he isn't. He isn't killing Theon, just taking him. They watch as the foreign ships depart from the harbor and set sail, and it strikes Asha that maybe the Starks are a little Iron Born themselves, reaving Pyke and stealing the riches that were the last living boy. 

But her thoughts are cut short when a hand clasps on her shoulder. It is a thin hand, bony beneath callouses and salt toughened skin, and the long fingers curl against the beaten leather of her jerkin with a possessive need for reassurance. She looks up as the wind flicks strands of hair about her rounded cheeks, marked with a slew of pimples that Rodrik had made fun of the very morning he had died, and narrows her eyes against the gust of salt spray that always seems to blow about. Out of the corner of her eye, Asha can see her mother collapse in a fit of hysteria and turns to watch a member of her house catch the limp and sobbing figure before leading her back to the drafty castle of Pyke, but when green eyes flick back to her father, he has not moved. 

Lord Balon Greyjoy of the Iron Isles, freshly humbled and king no more, looked out to the sea with a dead look in his eye. Out on the water, several ships flying the Stark and Baratheon colors can be seen drifting into the sun painted waters, but they were largely disappearing by now and it strikes Asha that they must have been standing out here for hours. Her father, however, still stands, even when the sun sinks low and casts such sharp shadows that the fleet can no longer be spotted. He stands and looks, beyond the ships, and it seems to her that he is looking to the sea, to the Drowned God in hopes of staving off the internal waters that threatened to crash over them all. But there was a storm in his eyes, cloudy and unnavigable waters that she could not fathom. 

Her father had never paid specific attention to her. Asha was the girl, the weaker of the four children and the one he often disregarded when teaching his children that of the old ways. He even took Theon into his council more often than his daughter, and never seemed to take note of how the youngest boy ran and hid behind their mother's skirts when the Rodrick and Meron came for him while she took their pinches and punches. And why should he? Lord Greyjoy had three sons once. Lord Greyjoy had three sons two mornings ago, and now he had only a daughter. 

It is the crack of thunder that brings him out of his stupor, and when his hand twists tightly on her shoulder again, Asha looks from the darkening water to her father again. He was never a tall man, but at the age of twelve, with freshly budding breasts and flat soled shoes, her father was the tallest man alive. 

Even when broken. 

"Your brothers are dead," he says, and in that moment she can tell he does not think this rebellion worth the lives of the children he lost. 

"What is dead may never die," she responds automatically, and searches his face for some sign that he approves, or takes comfort, or anything. 

"The Princes of Pyke are dead," he says again and there is something too hard in his sorrow, something stuck that shows promise of steadily freezing his heart and turning him bitter. 

"What is dead may never die," she repeats out of necessity. 

"My _heirs_ are dead."

"What is dead may never die."

His hand on her shoulder is almost painful now, but she does not squirm under the pressure. Something is breaking on his face, something between rage and tears, and Asha finds that to be a completely unfitting mix on an Iron Born. When he speaks again, his voice almost breaks;

"My _sons_ are dead."

And then there is a pause between them. It is not silent, for life surrounded by the sea is never silent. There's the smash of waves against rock, the constant whispering ripple of the sea, the calls of indignant bids, and the beginning drips of raindrops on her skin which reverberate louder than the thunder that promises that drowning storm. Perhaps, if he's lucky, Theon will drown on the Stark boat. He could stop crying then. And perhaps, when they are all truly dead and not just stolen, her father will find peace, either in completion of the deaths or in his own insanity. 

"The Starks took them from me. Took them all."

 _Not I, Father,_ she thinks, but does not say aloud. Instead, Asha bites the inside of her cheek hard as raindrops begin to wet her hair and spot her clothes. She gazes at her father, blinks the hair and salt from her eyes and gazes at him as openly as she dares, and when he does not reprimand her, she can see that his hurt runs much deeper than hers. Despite the moisture in the air, Asha wet her lips with a swipe of the tongue. 

"They've sown their fate, Father."

_What is dead may never die._

"And one day, I'm sure they'll reap the rewards for my brothers' deaths."

_But rises again. Harder and stronger._

The hand on her shoulder relaxes a bit at that, and after the two of them stand there for a while longer and breath the sea and salt and the wind and the rain into their lungs, they turned and returned to the shambling castle of Pyke, she a bit in the lead and him with his fingers curled around the base of her neck as if to anchor her there; to make sure the storm would not take her away as well.


End file.
